Spitfire
by lildorkysue
Summary: Klaus seeks Bonnie out for a pleasant little chat concerning the whereabouts of his missing coffin. Friction ensues, however, when Mystic Falls' favorite witch is more of a spitfire than the Original bargained for. Slight language and roarin' UST.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except an undying love for this electric, awesome, entirely shafted ship.

**spitfire**

chapter one

Klaus was, to put it mildly, a rather single-minded bloke. When he was hungry, he ate—often pretty little things with creamy skin and swan-like necks. When he was amused, he smiled—sometimes charmingly, sometimes terrifyingly, but always with the veiled implication that he could tear your throat out at any moment glittering in his stare. When he was angry, he killed people—occasionally even random strangers with absolutely no involvement in the situation at hand.

But most importantly, when he needed something, he got it. And right now, he needed a witch; preferably an extraordinarily gifted one who might know where a certain suicidal lunatic was hiding his coffin. Thus, the short-tempered Original found himself in his current predicament: lounging in a booth at the Grille, fingers curled around a glass of outrageously aged Scotch, staring at the curly-haired girl sitting a dozen or so feet away.

It was a large table, round and designed for parties of six or more, but the girl was by herself. Even if someone wanted to join her, they wouldn't have been able to—the wooden surface was covered in books, papers, old texts, pencils, highlighters, post-it notes: she could've easily passed for a frazzled student studying for a test. But Klaus knew better. He hadn't been alive for a thousand years for naught.

He saw the ancient Wiccan symbols peeking from beneath her Calculus homework. He saw that the jacket of her Biology textbook was large and ill-fitting on the Grimoire she was concealing beneath it. He saw that the pages stapled between her Cellular Respiration notes were thick, yellowed, and curling at the edges—scrolls of parchment covered in spells. But most importantly, he saw that for whatever reason, by some stroke of luck, Mystic Fall's favorite little witch was having an off-day.

It showed in the lines of her shoulders, the way her eyes were circled in shadows. It showed in the way she was having trouble concentrating and kept ordering more coffee with a tired, apologetic smile: soy cappuccino, shot of hazelnut, no whipped cream. Her legs were crossed on the armchair she'd dragged over from the reading area, feet tucked beneath the knees Indian style, and her elbows were resting on the table, one hand toying with the edge of the page she was reading and the other propping her head up.

He watched her fingers thread into the dark curls of her temple. She could barely hold her head up. So tense, so tired—one might even say _vulnerable_. His lips curled. Poor thing.

"Angela," he called in a silky voice, lifting a hand to signal the curvy young waitress that'd been doting on him all afternoon. His gaze never flickered from the witch. "Would you be so kind as to bring me a shot of your finest vodka?"

The blonde smiled in that perky way that only blondes could smile. "Of course! Do you want anything else? Something to eat, maybe?"

The corners of his lips tipped into a smirk. "Perhaps later, love."

"Alright, just let me know!" And with that, his impending dinner flounced off to the bar. He cocked his head to the side and continued to observe his subject, mentally recording as many behaviors and habits of hers as he could. He'd never realized how little he knew about Bonnie Bennett. For being such a powerful little thing, she certainly liked to fade into the background—always coming in to save the day for her insipid friends and then retreating back into herself, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

He knew she was selfless: that'd he'd seen for himself when she'd offered up her life to finish his and bluntly told him to blame her for Elena's survival. He knew she was powerful: the bloody bint had almost killed him. He knew she was self-righteous: the trait bled out of her every pore, fueling the ramrod stiffness of her spine and sharpening the imperial angle of her chin. But most importantly, he knew that she had a weakness. Everyone had weaknesses. And hers happened to be quite easy.

She was unfailingly loyal to her friends.

"One shot of vodka for the hot British guy," Angela teased, breaking him out of his thoughts, and he smiled his sly, Viper-like smile.

"Oh, I'm more of a Scotch man, myself, darling—this," he said, taking the shot and lifting it slightly, "is for my tragically stressed friend over there."

She frowned, following his line of vision and zeroing in on Bonnie. "Oh. Well, I'm going to have to check her ID—"

"No, you aren't," he said pleasantly, locking onto her gaze and subjecting her to an effortless compulsion. Her eyes grew hazy. "Now run along and find something to busy yourself while I have a little chat with my witch, and then I'll tear your throat out for supper, yes?"

She smiled brightly. "Sounds great."

"There's a good girl," he purred, watching her disappear to the kitchen for a moment before getting to his feet, grabbing the shot, and making his way over to the crowded table his prey had claimed hours ago. He stopped at the foot of it, directly across from her, and stared down at her lowered head. She sensed him before she saw him—he could tell by the way her body froze and her fingers stopped fidgeting with the page.

Without any sort of greeting, he set the shot glass down on the center of the table. "You look like you could use this, sweetheart."

Her eyes snapped over to the glass, a brief flash of sharp, assessing green, before reverting back to the book in front of her. They didn't move over the page. She was stiff as a statue, caution and alertness radiating off her in waves.

He smiled, reaching a hand out and pulling up an arbitrary chair. "Mind if I join yo—"

"Yes," came the lightning-like response. His brows rose slightly. She still hadn't looked up, eyes trained on the symbols scrawled before her, but he knew she wasn't reading them.

"That's a bit rude, don't you think?" he asked, taking a seat anyway and settling his interlaced hands on the table. "Particularly considering the fact that I've planned my whole day around formally meeting you." He shot her a wide, charismatic smile, extending a hand. "Klaus."

She kept her gaze down, acknowledging the gesture with nothing more than an acidic, "Charmed."

He pursed his lips in playful disapproval. "Come now, love," he said, reaching forward to grab her hand himself, "sarcasm and bad manners are ill-suited on a pretty little witch like—" a hiss cut through his words as his hand sprang back, recoiling from the scalding sensation transferred through her skin.

She'd burned him. The witch had bloody burned him.

His eyes snapped down to his blistered skin, fingers fading back to their usual pale smoothness, before lifting back up to her face. She was staring back at him with a cold expression.

His eyes glittered. "Careful, darling."

She didn't so much a blink, gaze stubbornly trained on his. In fact, if it weren't for things like the rapid staccato of her pulse, he would think she was entirely unafraid of him right now. Stoic. Unperturbed. Composed. Alas, the blood rushing through her at an alarming rate satisfied his need to terrify her enough for him to resume his languid demeanor, and he leaned back into his seat, glancing down casually at her sprawl of belongings.

"Well, well. Those are rather intriguing Biology notes," he commented, nodding to the handwritten symbols scrawled over a notebook page entitled 'Glycolysis'. "It's funny, but I seem to have forgotten the step involving pentagrams. Remind me what that was again?"

She reached over and closed the notebook swiftly, guarded eyes once again averting to the tabletop. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked, leaning forward as if to hear her better, and, as planned, she glanced up instinctively. He seized the opportunity to compel her, holding her stare captive with his, though after a few seconds, a blinding pain bloomed over his left temple.

"_Bloody—_!" he cried, inhaling sharply and pressing his hands against his head. It felt like she was splitting his skull into a thousand tiny little pieces, and his eyes, ever a calm, angelic blue, grew molten with rage as they tore up to hers.

She was frantically gathering her stuff, stuffing notebooks and loose pages into her backpack with no organization whatsoever. His lip curled into a snarl—she was out of her mind if she thought he was letting her walk out of that door unscathed—though his focus couldn't help but snag on the fact that, despite her obvious fear, she still fumbled for her wallet to pay the bill.

His fury ebbed slightly, giving way to a flutter of surprise. He could rip her throat out at any moment, and yet there she was, yanking a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and dropping in on the table as if it _mattered_? How insufferably _good_ could one person be?

"Not so fast, love," he gritted out as she tried to rush past him, clenching his jaw through the pain and blurring to his feet. She gasped sharply as she crashed right into him, immediately trying to stumble back, though he wrapped an arm around her waist before she could so much as scream and blurred them out of the Grille.

* * *

><p>One moment, Bonnie had been about to miraculously escape a psychopathic Klaus encounter with nothing but frazzled nerves to show for it—the next, she was pinned between his hard, uncompromising frame and the brick façade of the building behind her. Her brain barely had time to register the change—she'd gone from inside the Grille to trapped in the back alley in the blink of an eye—but it did have time to register fear.<p>

Lots and lots of nervous, life-threatening, I'm-trapped-by-a-sociopath-in-an-alley-where-no-one-will-hear-me-scream _fear_. His arms were locked on either side of her waist, hands splayed on the cold brick behind her, and his body was mere inches from hers, looming intimidatingly over her slight frame.

"Much better," he purred, his eyes dark with the promise of irreparable destruction. His face was terrifyingly close—she could see the canines peeking from the corners of his parted lips—but she couldn't bring herself to move. "So much clamor and noise inside that useless Grille—'fraid I found myself with a bit of a _headache_. Now, tell me, sweetheart, what is it that you've been studying so diligently for the past few hours? Something to do with opening a coffin, perhaps?"

She swallowed thickly, stare flying about her surroundings to devise her best exit strategy. The back door to the Grille was a few feet away, the parking lot was about fifty feet down the alley, the Sheriff's office was just down the stree—

"Bonnie, love," he said, and in a harsh movement grabbed her chin, forced her to look him in the eye, and smiled condescendingly. "Refusing to look at your elders when they address you is quite rude."

Heart pounding, her eyes narrowed into stubborn slits. "Then I can only imagine how rude this must be." And with that, she concentrated her power into a vicious shock wave that threw him across the alleyway. She immediately felt the drain on her power—affecting an Original in the slightest took so much more out of her than affecting a regular vampire—but she didn't have time to think about it: she was barreling down the alley before he'd even hit the ground.

_Just make it to the door, just make it to the door, please GOD just make it to the—! _

A cry choked out of her throat as a ruthless set of fingers clenched around her wrist just as her other hand reached for the doorknob, wrenching her around so violently that her arm nearly popped out its socket. She immediately crashed into the wall of his body, though before she could remotely orient herself she was slammed in the other direction, the back of her hitting the brick wall with an excruciating _crack_.

Pain immediately swelled through her body, bursting in her head and spurring a sudden, nauseating dizziness. The world spun around her, full of colorful swirls and bright flashes, and she felt herself slumping back against the cold brick. Consciousness was slipping from her—everything was going in and out of focus—and her eyes began flickering shut.

"Ah, ah, ah," a low voice purred, breath fluttering against her cheek, and she realized the only reason she was still on her feet was because he was pressed against her, holding her up. "Wakey, wakey, love. We have things to discuss."

She struggled to retain consciousness, every neuron inside of her screaming to get away from him, but the vertigo weakening her body caused her head to slump against his shoulder instead. He chuckled darkly, dropping his hands to her waist and easing her slight frame into his arms. She revolted at twisted intimacy of the embrace. "_Mmm,_" she protested weakly, attempting to shake her head, though he lifted a hand to still the movement.

"There, there, pet," he murmured against her ear, a wicked quality to his voice, and to her hazy horror began stroking her hair. "No need to make it worse. In fact, I should warn you that if you don't regain some semblance of brain activity within the next minute or so, I'll be left with no choice but to force my blood down your throat."

He said this all so pleasantly, so soothingly, that the low rumble of his voice almost put her to sleep. She whimpered in weak objection, saying something that was little more than a string of vowels, but he simply shushed her, gently stroking her hair. She felt her eyes closing against his shoulder, body settling into the strong comfort of his embrace like a little girl falling asleep in her father's arms—until the meaning of his words suddenly struck her.

Her eyes flashed open, choked gasp catching in her throat as she lifted her head and sprang out of his grip. Pain bloomed through her temple with shocking intensity, almost knocking her right off her feet, but she forced herself to swallow the stabs and scrambled back against the wall.

"There she is," he said with a smirk, watching her manifested aversion to him with an amused quality in his stare. She glared at him as fiercely as she could, clutching the brick behind her for support and trying to steady her breathing, and his brow furrowed mockingly. "You look a bit peaky, love. Headache?"

Her eyes slitted as she gritted out, "No. You?" And with what little strength she had left, she triggered another vicious set of aneurisms in his head that had him in immediate agony.

"_Bonnie_," he snarled furiously, hands shooting up to the wall for support as his entire body collapsed forward. His face was contorted with pain, the angles and planes so tight with tension that they looked ready to snap, and he could barely hold his head up high enough to meet her blazing stare. "End it or I will end you," he spat in a ragged growl, breaths hoarse and shuddering.

"You'll end me either way," she rasped, struggling to maintain the spell.

"Fucking _hell_!" he roared, slamming his fist against the wall in a terrifying blow that landed mere inches from her ear. It tore half a foot through the brick. Her whole body was shaking, limbs entirely spent from the effort of keeping her upright, but she forced herself to keep focusing on the blood vessels in his head. He dropped his head forward, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "Bonnie, I swear on my life—"

"You're dead," she gritted out.

"—my mother's life—"

"The one you killed?"

"_Damn _it, witch!" he growled, raising a hand in an unrestrained manner before forcing himself to close it into a tight fist. She flinched at the motion and he struggled to gain his composure. "Stop this and I swear I'll let you go."

She glared at him through heavy, mistrustful eyes, chest heaving from the effort of the spell. "How do I—"

"I'm a man of my word, Bennett, just stop the bloody explosions!" he snapped, and more because she was about to black out than anything, she re-collapsed against the wall, abandoning her assault on his head. He exhaled slowly, his entire body loosening from the hyper-tense set of lines it'd been reduced to. She assumed he was seconds away from killing her, but she was honestly too drunk with exhaustion to care.

Caring was hard. Caring took effort. Death sounded so restful right now; it was hard for her to see the downside in her current state. No more of the constant, all-consuming worry she always felt. No more frantic calls or midnight visits pitting the weight of the world, of a life, on her shoulders, on her ability to find and perform the right spell. No more waking up paralyzed by nightmares. Just… nothingness.

Soothed by the thought, she let her head lull to the side, eyes fluttering closed so that she could lose herself in the marvelous black paradise hiding behind her eyelids.

* * *

><p>Klaus caught the petite girl just as she slumped forward, body entirely unconscious. Half of him wanted nothing more than to break her fucking neck for her little magic show, but the other half of him was, if he was being entirely honest with himself, a bit impressed. This girl—this guarded, self-righteous little witch who paid her bill in the face of death and refused to act like she was backed into a corner even when she was quite <em>literally<em> backed into a corner… she was a spitfire.

She went down swinging.

He felt the fragility of her in his arms, the weakness of her pulse, and marveled at the fact that she'd almost killed herself just to put him in a bit of pain. She was afraid of him, but she wasn't afraid of death. He got the sense that she was more afraid of what he could do to others than what he could do to her. The selflessness of it all annoyed him. She was so much more powerful than her friends—why the bloody hell would she sacrifice herself for them?

But it intrigued him a bit as well, this insufferable loyalty of hers. He had it from all of his followers, of course, but that was a product of compulsion or a sire bond. This girl, however, this Bennet witch… she gave it freely. He could only imagine what having impassioned, authentic loyalty like that would feel like—particularly from someone as useful and powerful as her. Knowing that he'd earned it from her, that he'd wheedled his way into the righteous confines of her heart and gained her trust… the idea was intoxicating. And if he harnessed that power…

"Oh, the things we could do, Bonnie Bennett," he murmured, cradling her spent body in his cold embrace. The smell of warm vanilla wafted from her hair, mixing with the coppery scent of the blood seeping from her nose, and his eyes fluttered closed at the delicious mix. He could kill her so easily right now—just a quick nip, a brief snap, and it would all be all over. But he couldn't. He needed information that he knew he could only get from her—things even Stefan didn't know yet.

That, and a gentleman never broke his word. A smirk curled at his lips: a gentleman could, however, bend it. With that in mind, he hoisted her up, swung her legs up into bridal style, and vanished out of the dilapidated alley in a dizzying blur of speed.

He'd told her that he would let her go if she stopped the attack. He'd never specified when.

A/N: Much more Klonnie to come ;) Feedback is LOVE!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **First of all, just wanted to give a colossal THANK YOU for all of the amazing, thoughtful reviews you guys left for chapter one. My goal with this story is to paint Klonnie as realistically as possible so that the people who claim that it makes no sense can see what we see (re: the incredible power of equals!). Thus, the fact that you guys picked up on that is amazing to hear. This chapter is dedicated to the thing I think is most important in making Klonnie happen: the moment where Klaus realizes just how special our girl Bon-Bon really is :) Far bloodier and less sappy than it sounds, I promise.

Warning: emotional rollercoaster ahead.

**spitfire**

chapter two

Even from behind the back of her eyelids, Bonnie could tell she was decidedly _not_ where she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be at home. She was supposed to be snuggled into the warm cotton covers of her bed. She was supposed to be breathing in the faint smell of vanilla laundry detergent. She was supposed to be surrounded by the familiar thrum of the protective spells she'd placed around her room.

Instead, she was drowning in silk. Yards and yards of silk—she could feel the exquisite material ghosting across her skin as she stirred from her slumber. The surface she was sprawled over was softer than her bed: it gave into every dip and curve of her body, making her feel like a sleepy angel napping on a cloud. It was all too extravagant, too rich.

And then there was the smell. Faint, but distinct enough for her to notice. It was a woodsy scent, equal parts musk and cologne, rendering it both feral and elegant at the same time. She inhaled deeply, cheek pressed into the lush silk of a pillow, and found herself slightly heady from the deep, almost wolfish sme—

Wolfish.

Her eyes flew open in a jolt of panic: Klaus.

Darkness engulfed her immediately, and without really thinking, she scrambled up into a hasty sitting position. Pain instantly exploded in her head, almost causing her to cry out in alarm. She'd entirely forgotten about the alley.

Overcome with dizziness, she slumped back into the lavish bed, palm tightly pressed against her forehead. Her pulse was racing—she didn't have time for this. She needed to get the hell out of here before he noticed she was awake, or decided he was hungry, or killed her for fun, or did whatever the hell it was Klaus did to the people he brought home with him.

She tried to calm down. She knew healing spells. Surely she'd recovered her powers after… a flutter of panic traversed her upon realizing she had no idea how long she'd been out. Minutes? Hours? Days? It didn't matter—what mattered was getting out. Inhaling shakily, she closed her eyes, sifting through her mental catalogue of spells before choosing one that temporarily masked pain.

She performed it with a silent flutter of her lips, face tense with anticipation, and a surge of relief coursed through her as the warm, thrumming feeling of magic spread through her body. Her magic was back. Her defenses were back. Shields up. Helplessness down. She could do this.

She sat up with renewed vigor, expression hardened as she scanned the room. Her gaze was tight and surgical, taking apart everything in the room she could discern in the darkness and factoring it into her exit strategy. Window, no ledge, but a quick altitude detection spell told her she was at least three stories up—connecting bathroom with possible window, but similar height problem—faint outline of an armoire by the door which might have something she could charm in it, but her levitation spells were still iffy—barely discernable armchair in the corner with something on it, like a thick blanket or big stuffed animal or—

"Morning, sunshine."

She shrieked instinctively, jolting five or so inches into the air and scrambling back into the bed, back hitting the headboard with a dull thud. Her heart was in her throat, pulse racing like a wild animal's, and she struggled to control her breathing.

"Mind not screeching like that, love?" he asked, the faint outline of his figure lounging in the chair with complete ease. "I have sensitive ears. Half-werewolf and whatnot."

"How long have you been sitting there?" she gasped, realizing it was a bit of a stupid question but unable to voice anything else.

He paused for a moment, as if considering his answer. "Dunno, really. Two hours? Three?" A brief flicker of relief shot through her: a few hours meant she probably hadn't been here for that lo— "Generally, my hybrids watch you. I have rather better to things to do than watch an incapacitated girl sleep for a week."

Her throat constricted like a boa on its prey. "A week?" she choked out.

He chuckled at her horror. "Mortals. Such an all-consuming _obsession_ with time. It's adorable, really."

People must've thought she was dead. Elena, Caroline, Matt, her Dad… God, her Dad… he had no idea any of this world even existed. Her eyes softened, anxiety and guilt brightening the green into a tight knot of limes and yellows. If only none of this world existed.

"If you're worried about your friends, they know where you are," Klaus drawled absently, and her head instantly snapped up.

"What?"

"Well, Stefan does anyway," he said, tone idle, "but I'm sure he's passed the message along to the rest of your little Scooby gang."

Confused by what she was hearing, Bonnie straightened up, hand snapping up to conjure a ball of light so that she could actually see his expression. A golden glow spread over the room, faintly outlining the sharp lines and extravagant curls of the furniture around her, and the very last vestiges of its reach illuminated a lazily lounging Klaus.

He was stretched over the armchair in a careless manner, elbows perched on the armrests and fingers steepled loosely over his chest. His legs were sprawled out, long and lithe and crossed at the ankles, and his head was cocked to the side in idle observation.

His eyes, however, were squinting. "Is the supernova necessary?"

"Why do you want them to know where I am?" she demanded, entirely ignoring the question. It didn't make any sense. She was helping Stefan open the coffin, she was the only witch he knew who was willing to help him out, and she was the only witch with enough power and resources to kill an Original. Without her in the picture, any threat to Klaus essentially vanished. Her voice hardened, "And why am I still alive?"

His brows rose slightly, surprised chuckle falling from his lips. "I'm sorry, have I offended you by not killing you?"

"Answer the question," she said firmly, piecing together a motive in her head that she didn't like at all—in fact, it spurred a dangerous flare of anger in her that warmed the icy edges right off her fear.

He smiled and confirmed her thoughts with a single, lazy word. "Leverage."

"No." She'd snapped out the word before she could think twice, back stiffening and fingers clenching into angry fistfuls of his silk sheets. Her body was a series of tight lines, every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action, and her eyes were daggers of bright, dangerous green.

If there was one thing she was prepared to die for, it was the wellbeing of her family and friends, and if this raging psychopath thought that he could use the threat of harming her to make them go along with his twisted schemes, to make them do things that would destroy any chance they had of living better lives, to manipulate them like he manipulated fucking _everybody _in order to get his way, he was sorely mistaken.

"No?" he echoed, his face flickering with amusement.

"No," she confirmed, every line in her face tight with purpose.

"I wasn't asking for permission, sweetheart."

"Unfortunately, you need it."

The corners of his lips tipped upward. "Really? And exactly how do you plan on stopping me, love?"

"I know plenty of killing spells."

He chuckled openly. "Come now, little witch, you and I both know that I can't be killed with just a spe—"

"I meant for me."

His face flickered. It was a brief reaction—a momentary lapse in the otherwise perfectly controlled mask of unflappability he always wore—but it was all she needed to confirm she'd struck a chord. His smile came back soon enough, but it was tighter now, visibly less relaxed. "Don't you think that's taking the whole 'over my dead body' sentiment a bit far?"

She held his stare coldly. "No." And she meant it.

He cocked his head to the side, expression slowly taking on a glitter of something bright, something dangerous. For a moment, he merely watched her, staring at her over his interlaced fingers with the eyes of a killer, and she felt her burst of bravado desert her slightly. And then, in an absent, nothing-better-to-do drawl, "I suppose I should just kill you then."

Before she could so much as scream, his body crashed into hers, flattening her onto the bed in a manner that had her pinned beneath his considerably larger frame. Her immediate instinct was to scream and claw, to give in to the blinding, body-racking terror that had seized her the second he moved, but after a few moments of vicious struggling, she realized with a jolt that she couldn't fight him.

If she fought him off, he wouldn't believe her. He'd know how badly she wanted to live. He'd see right through her: he'd know she was absolutely terrified of dying and that she might not have the balls to actually kill herself if it came down to that. And then he'd go on with his merry plan to use her to get other people killed. She couldn't let him do that, but could she really take her own life to stop it? She knew she was strong—she'd heard it her whole life. Bonnie the strong one. Bonnie the smart one. Bonnie the fighter.

But she wasn't that strong. She wasn't that strong at all; she was seventeen, for God's sake. She was supposed to have her whole life ahead of her—her prom, her college years, maybe even her wedding to someone who cared more about her ridiculous obsession with cucumber sandwiches than he did her ability to throw a vampire across a room. She could have kids. A family. A daughter that she wouldn't ever leave behind.

She wasn't strong enough to know for certain that she could throw the possibility of that life away herself. She needed someone to do it for her.

Thus, mustering every last shred of bravery and determination she had, she forced herself to still. Klaus lunged at the opportunity, grabbing her previously thrashing wrists and yanking them above her head in a deadlock, and she put up no resistance. Noticing the sudden stillness, he glanced down at her, lips lifting into a ghost of a smirk as he lowered his head to brush them along her ear. "Mustering another aneurism attack, are we, love?"

She shut her eyes to keep back the tears, heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she saw flickers of the people she'd never get to see again: Caroline grinning her adorable grin, holding up a slutty red dress for her to try on and telling her that she wasn't allowed to look like a grandma at her birthday party; Elena sitting across from her at a coffee shop, laughing so hard that her latte was coming out of her nose, History homework entirely abandoned on the table between them; her Dad sitting on the couch, grumbling about football and telling her only a kiss from his favorite daughter could make him feel better…

_For them_, she thought, eyes suddenly springing open. They were bloodshot, glittering with tears that began falling freely the second her lids opened, but they were hard with determination. This was for them, for their chance to live the life she wouldn't be able to. Heartbroken, terrified, and full of resolve, she forced herself to meet his stare.

His eyes were a bright, dizzying blue, fathomless in their depth. "No one has to die tonight, love." It was a murmur, surprisingly soft. She blinked, slightly rattled by the change in his tone, but he continued to stare at her, slowly running his gaze down her face.

"So young," he breathed, his cool breath fluttering against her cheek. "So much _life_ ahead of you. So many lovely things to see, so much lustrous music to hear… so many _sensations_," he whispered, trailing one of his hands down the length of her pinned arms to swipe a tear from her cheek, "to experience. Why give that all up?"

She shivered, frozen beneath his magnetic stare. He was hypnotizing her. She was aware of it, felt the pull of his voice coaxing her into an oasis of warmth and easy-way-outs, but she couldn't quite bring herself to shake him off.

"Think of the stories you could tell," he murmured, lifting his eyes as if envisioning them. "Think of the _adventures_. A stolen gondola in Venice," he ventured, eyes luminous with possibilities. "A midnight swim in the Sienne. Perhaps even a love affair in Morocco. Anything. Everything. Bonnie," he said, spellbinding eyes moving back to hers, and she felt her defenses cracking. "You deserve to live all of those things. You've sacrificed enough."

She closed her eyes. She'd never been to Europe.

"Bonnie." He cupped her face, gently tilting it so that his gaze was directly over hers, and her eyes fluttered half-open. "You're not the sort that dies young. I've been alive for thousands of years, and I've met thousands of people, and you, Bonnie Bennett," he whispered against her, fingers cool on her cheek, "you're the rare sort that makes waves in the world. Not splashes, not ripples," he dropped his voice into the barest of whispers, "waves."

She'd always wanted to be a doctor. Her dad had even given her a bunch of MCAT books for Christmas once as a joke. She'd wanted to take a few years off after her residency, travel the world, help people in third-world countries without access to healthcare. Change their lives. Waves.

"Everyone knows that you're strong, love," he murmured, the lulling sound rumbling and intimate. "Everyone knows that you're brave. But the bravest choice you can make here isn't throwing your life, your glorious kaleidoscope of a future, away." He trailed a thumb along the line of her bottom lip, eyes glowing with promises, "It's living it. It's looking at the vast ocean of possibilities comprising your future and diving in, headfirst, and causing a tsunami. It's taking on the challenge," he went on, forehead dropping against hers, "of living a life worthy of Madame Curie, Mother Teresa, Frida Kahlo, and Helen of Troy. A life worthy," he whispered, his lips ghosting against hers, "of Bonnie Bennett."

She shuddered, caught in the intensity of his stare, the brush of his lips, the deception of his promises. It would be so easy. So wonderfully easy to just give in, believe his fabrications, buy into this grandiose, heroic version of herself that owed it to the world to live another day, another year, another life. He sold her future better than she ever could have.

"So. What's it to be, love?" he asked, stare fixed on hers, hypnotic and fathomless. "Do as I say for just a few days, then go on, fall in love, and have your Homerian epic of a life? Or die an unnecessary death, add another name on the considerable list of loved ones your friends have lost, and become a tombstone marked 'Here lies a tragic waste of potential'?"

She stared up at him through foggy, half-lidded eyes, her decision having made itself the moment he'd started talking, and her lips lifted into a soft, hazy smile. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>A smile slowly unfurled over his lips. He had her.<p>

"Of course, love," he replied, gazing into her sultry jade irises and finding himself pleasantly surprised by how alluring they could be when they weren't glaring. "You're young, you're allowed to make foolish deci—"

"It was a beautiful speech, and I know you put a lot of effort into it, so thank you," she cut in, the softness fading from her eyes as the jagged limes came back. "I'm glad you think I'm worthy of your best effort."

He stared at her, surprise seeping into his gaze. He refused to show it physically, of course, keeping his face forcibly neutral, but mentally, he was thrown. After all of that, she still wanted to keep this whole dying charade up? This witch had gall. He suppressed his impatience and softened his expression, bring a thumb up to trail along her cheek. "I meant every word, darling."

She averted her gaze, inhaling shakily and loosening one of her hands from his grip. For a moment, he thought he had her again: her entire body was trembling. She brought her hand to her cheek, briefly cupping it over his hand, and he suppressed the urge to smile.

And then she removed it.

"Bonnie," he teased in a murmur, closing his eyes and brushing his nose against hers, "there's no need to be mea—" the words cut off when he felt his lips pressed up against her neck. He could hear the blood rushing, smell the sweet, coppery tang of it buried beneath her skin, and he immediately sprang back.

Her head was turned, hand holding her hair back to expose her neck. She was shaking violently. "Do it."

He stared at her in shock. "What the bloody he—"

"_Do it_," she demanded, voice cracking with emotion.

He shook his head, anger starting to suffuse him. "You're bluffing." No one was this selfless. It was impossible.

"Do it or I'll do it myself!" she cried, a choked sob caught in her voice, and for the first time that night, he felt a glimmer of doubt. She was entirely raw in that moment, eyes wild as they flicked around the room, and he realized she might be telling the truth.

The anxiety spurred a dangerous sort of fury in him—he was _always_ in command, _always _ten steps ahead. There was no way he'd miscalculated. "I'm getting tired of this little game, witch," he growled, releasing her other hand to grab her chin and yank it back to him, and she seized the opportunity.

Her arm shot out and grabbed a letter opener that'd been left on the bedside, though before she could do anything with it, he caught her wrist. The sharp metal glinted between their faces. He stared at it for a moment, glanced back at her, and then laughed loudly. "This was your plan? Distract me and then stab me with a letter opener?"

She said nothing, eyes blazing with hatred and fingers tight around the metal. He smirked at her. He knew it. Of course she was bluffing. In over a thousand years of existence, he'd never come across a single person who would do what she was claiming. Survival instinct was human nature.

"No offense, love, but that's a bit of a shit plan. I expected more from you." He shot her a twisted grin, cocking his head to the side with a patronizing expression. "In fact, go ahead. Stab me. It can be a game to see how far you get."

And with glittering eyes, he released her hand.

She drove the letter opener into the side of her neck.

His roar of alarm mixed unidentifiably with her cry of pain, and before he could compose himself, blood was gushing out of her neck, blooming across the silk of his sheets like a pattern of red roses. His senses were immediately overwhelmed, veins protruding from his skin in ridges as his fangs extended uncontrollably, and he knew with furious yell that he'd lost control of the situation.

"You _stupid_ girl!" he rasped, clenching furious fistfuls of his sheets into his fingers to keep from surging forward.

"_Do _it!" she screamed, angling her neck at him and wrenching her hair back. "Kill me! I made my choice, now follow through!"

"Cover it up," he gasped out, eyes flooded with bloodlust. He felt his grip on himself slipping away, his thirst for blood raging through his head like warfare, but the stare she snapped over to him volatile with hatred.

"You get everything you want by manipulating people," she spat, viscous tears streaming down her face, "by messing with their heads and playing on their biggest fears, and you've been getting away with it for years because everyone _lets_ you! You chip and chip and chip away until they're just too fucking terrified to say no, but guess what!" she cried, voice ragged, "I'm not scared of you! I'm not scared of anything you can do to me anymore, so go ahead! Rip my throat out!" Her entire body was racked with shivers, shaking so hard that she could barely speak, and for a moment he was struck by the immensity of what he was witnessing.

She was starting to fade, the loss of blood making her eyelashes begin to flutter, but in that moment, vulnerable and terrified though she obviously was, she had completely won. Beat him like he hadn't been beaten in a long time. He'd lost his grip, miscalculated entirely, and was now seconds from killing the one girl he needed to keep alive at all costs for any of his future plans to work. The bloodlust was quickly taking over, increasing proportionally to the amount gushing from her neck, though she still managed to shoot him a final glare.

"And for the record," she added, voice dropped into a weakening growl that was somehow more striking than her raw screams, "the only way I could ever lead a life I'd be proud of is if I _never_ did _anything_ to help a heartless, evil, despicable egomaniac like _you_."

He held her gaze, his eyes entirely enshrouded in black and hers a bleary green, and felt something inexplicable shift in his centuries-built worldview. He couldn't be sure what, but whatever it was, it was permanent.

She slumped forward mere seconds later, falling unconscious in a pool of her own blood, and by a stroke of miracle, the movement diverted the coppery smell long enough for him to snap out of the ravenous spell and spring away from the bed.

It took an entire ten minutes for him to compose himself enough to call a hybrid over to tend to her wounds. "Give her some blood, fix her up," he said gruffly, unable to take his eyes off her unconscious form, "and if you value the life of anyone you've ever so much as _glanced_ at, know that her blood is off-limits. All of it. Even what's spilled on the sheets."

The redhead nodded, though he seemed a bit confused by the order. Klaus didn't elaborate, partly because he didn't have to and partly because he had no real reason aside from a vague, territorial feeling.

"When you're done, put this on her and get Gretchen to perform a binding spell on it that only the caster can break," he continued, taking off the ring that prevented him from dying a supernatural death and handing it over to the hybrid. After the stunt she'd just pulled, he was fully convinced she could kill herself if it came down to it. He couldn't have that.

"Anything else?"

"Yes," he said, smiling tightly. "If anyone asks for me, tell them I don't wish to be disturbed, and by that I mean if they knock on my door, I'll rip their heads off, pull out their entrails from the stumps of their neck, stuff the heads with said entrails, and hang them up on my wall as modern art. Got it?"

The hybrid swallowed. "Got it."

"Lovely. Cheers."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the room, refusing to glance back at the figure sprawled out on the bed. He'd come closer to ruining all of his plans than he'd ever been—come the closest to losing control of _everything_. All because of Bonnie fucking _Bennett_, the girl who faded into the shadows, the girl he'd never paid much attention to before last week.

The immensity of the oversight made him absolutely furious.

**A/N parte dos: **Okay. I'll admit it. Part of that scene was to show how, much as I adore her, Caroline is just too weak a character for Klaus to make any sense with. She's vampire Barbie, and she kicks ass in her own way, but she's pretty damn easy to manipulate what with all her insecurities and guy-issues and hormones. Now Bonnie, on the other hand… *waggles eyebrows*… anyway, please let me know what you think! This chapter had a lot of emotion and drama going on, so it'd be great to know if I pulled it off okay (I'm usually much better at humor). Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **First off – you. Reviewers. Are. The. Best. Seriously, every single review just fuels me to write the next chapter that much faster, so thank you so much for the words of encouragement. Klonnie may be magnetic, but they're also two very stubborn characters who need to be written just right for the romance to work, so hearing from you guys that I'm doing that at least somewhat successfully is FAMAZING.

Second off – some logistics: I decided to include Rebekah in this story because I think she's a necessary plot device. Also, she adds a lot of much needed humor to this situation, and I'm a huge humor fan, so that's my little AU moment. In the story, I'm pretending she went off to Paris for two weeks and just came back – i.e. she was never daggered. Also, the whole Bonnie's mother plot never happened.

That said, if Klonnie be the food of love, read on!

**spitfire**

chapter three

The knock that sounded on Klaus's door the following evening was as familiar as it was unwelcome. He sat back in his chair with an irritated sigh. "Tell me, Rebekah, what part of 'Do Not Disturb' confuses you?"

The door swung open, revealing the only person he knew who knocked to the rhythm of the Mary Had a Little Lamb. Fresh from her two weeks in France, Rebekah sauntered into the room, immediately draping herself over an armchair and lounging back like an heiress. "Why is there a teenage girl moaning on my bed?"

He stiffened, gaze suddenly alert. "She's awake?"

Rebekah shrugged. "Not exactly. More like coming to."

He glanced at the door, muttering a tense, "Wonderful." He hadn't expected her to recover this fast. He had yet to figure how to best approach her, and after the events of yesterday, he refused to waltz in without a plan. His instincts were off with her. He knew they were. Improvisation was clearly not an option: everything had to be precisely controlled.

Rebekah cocked her head to the side, eying him carefully. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," he replied, stare flickering back over to hers. She looked skeptical, brows arched over her pointed stare, and his lips lifted into a tight, unconvincing smile. "Just peachy."

Her lips pursed. "I can always tell when you're lying to me, Niklaus."

His jaw ticked irritably. "How nice for you. Now perhaps you can learn when I want you to go away."

"Touchy, touchy," she teased, clucking her tongue. "Something's certainly got you rattled. I have to say, I quite like it. Uneasy is a good look on you."

"I'm neither rattled nor uneasy, sister—the only thing I am right now is annoyed." He flashed her a quick, insincere smile. "So leave."

She lounged back into the seat, entirely ignoring the remark. "Is it something Stefan did? He's gotten so devious as of late; I wouldn't be surprised if he actually managed to one-up you."

His expression took on a dark flicker of amusement. "I know you like to think highly of your playthings, darling, but really now. Don't be ridiculous."

"Did that useless doppelganger die?" she ventured, and he picked up on the note of hope in her otherwise lazy voice.

His lips curled. "No."

Her face dropped in disappointment. "Pity. Well, then what could it be…"

He shrugged, twirling his pen in his fingers. "Nothing, because I'm perfectly fi—"

A faint moan echoed down the stairs from the third floor, causing him to falter and accidentally drop his pen. Rebekah zeroed in on the motion, eyes following the rapid trajectory of the ballpoint before snapping back up to his. She smirked. "It's the girl."

He swiveled back around in his seat, returning his attention to the papers sprawled over his desk. "I'm busy, Rebekah."

"You're not denying it."

"It's not the bloody Bennett girl."

"Bennett, hm?" she said, voice intrigued. "Yummy. I thought I smelled Bennett witch blood. Mind if I have a—"

"_Yes_," he snapped, turning his head to glare at her warningly. "I mind." At her raised eyebrows, he let out an irritable sigh. "She's lost a lot of blood and I need to keep her alive for the next few weeks."

"Oh, that's rich," she growled, eyes flashing with accusation. "You get to feed from her and I ca—"

"I didn't feed from her, she stabbed herself," he cut in without thinking, and Rebekah's face suddenly changed. Understanding dawned. She smiled slowly.

"And I take it you weren't expecting her to."

His eyes glittered with irritation. "Not really, no."

She folded her arms over her chest, one long leg crossing over the other. "I get it."

He turned his head back to the desk in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing to get."

"Of course," she said lightly, "nothing at all." A beat passed, and then he heard rustling. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'm going to go give her my warmest welcome."

"_Bekah_," he growled, head snapping around to forbid it, though she cut him off before he could start.

"Relax, Nik, I'm not going to do anything bad," she said, sashaying to the door before stopping to smirk over her shoulder. "She ruined one of your manipulative little plans. I like her already."

And with that, she was gone.

Klaus sighed. This would not bode well.

* * *

><p>This time, when Bonnie came to, she wasted no time with the what's, where's, and why's of her blackout. Her head was clear, body rested, and aside from a slight throbbing in her neck, she was entirely pain-free. She knew immediately she'd been fed vampire blood.<p>

An acrid taste filled her mouth at the thought.

Still, within seconds of opening her eyes, she was pacing around the room, firing off detection spells at the speed of light to see what kinds of enchantments Klaus had trapped her with. The windows had been sealed by one witch. Doors by two. The house in general had been sealed by sister witches, and three generations of a witch line had sealed a room in what must've been the cellar.

Probably where the rest of the coffins were hidden.

She marveled briefly at the diversity of power protecting this house—where had he found all of these witches? And how on earth had he gotten them all to help him? Witches in general were astonishingly hard to compel, though she supposed an Original might have an easier time with it than a regular vampire. Nonetheless, it was surprising.

Her probing spell detected a binding charm, and she glanced down at the sudden, indicative warmth on her finger. She was startled to find a ring there. It was a thick band, gold and embellished with an ivory and emerald fleur-de-lis. The Mikaelson family crest. This must've belonged to an Original.

She instinctively tried to take it off, though the binding charm did it's trick—it was stuck. Just as she was about to try and discern its purpose, however, a knock sounded on the door.

She glanced up sharply. The door remained closed. After a few moments, a knock sounded again. "May I come in?"

The voice was strong, female. Impatient. Bonnie marveled at the fact that she was asking. Well, given a choice, "No."

The door opened anyway, revealing a beautiful blonde with cold, impetuous eyes. Rebekah. She took a step forward and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing in a languid manner. "Forgive me for disrespecting your wishes, but this is, in fact, my room."

Bonnie held her ground. "I'd be more than happy to give it back in exchange for mine."

The blonde shrugged. "It's no use to me now. The smell of your blood is everywhere—side effect of stabbing one's self, I'd imagine." She cocked her head to the side, smiling coldly. "I'd just be hungry all the time."

Bonnie tensed slightly, resisting the urge to take a step back. She'd read somewhere about witch's blood, about how it was like catnip for vampires, but she couldn't remember why. Nonetheless, she made a mental note to air out the room. If she had to die, she'd rather it not be because of one Klaus' bloodlusty hybrids couldn't control himself.

"Nik tells me you'll be staying with us for a while," Rebekah said, dropping her gaze down to inspect her blood red nails.

"That's his plan," Bonnie replied, eyes steely. "Not mine."

The blonde's chuckled airily. "How cute that you think you have a choice."

Bonnie glared at the condescension. "Look, I don't know what kind of people you're used to dealing with, but I will _not_ sit idly by and take orders from a psychopath." Her jaw set into a stubborn line. "I'll get out of this house or I'll die trying."

"Righteous, are we?" Rebekah drawled, dropping her hand down and angling her stare back to her. It was speculative, assessing. "I can see why my brother's rattled by you. You're just as maddeningly stubborn as he is."

"I'm nothing like your brother," Bonnie said coldly.

Rebekah rolled her eyes, "And equally uptight. Pity. I was hoping having a girl in the house who wasn't forever indebted to Nik might be fun."

Bonnie stared at her incredulously. Was this girl for real? "I'm kidnapped, not sleeping over."

Rebekah shrugged. "Same act, different context. In any case, I just wanted to welcome you to our humble little abode. I see it's hardly necessary, since you've taken over my room with no qualms whatsoever, but nonetheless, manners are manners." She gave her a final once-over, taking in her tangled hair and worse-for-wear appearance, and gave a disdainful scrunch of her nose. "The shower's on your left."

Bonnie watched her swivel about and leave with guarded eyes, relaxing only the slightest bit when the door clicked shut. She sighed, running a hand through her hair and wincing at the matted explosion of tangles her fingers encountered. She didn't have time for a shower, did she?

"No, that'd be stupid," she muttered, trying to shake off the idea. What the hell did a shower matter when she was stuck in a house full of serial killing vampire-werewolf hybrids? What she needed to do was figure a way out of here.

Still, though… the idea was tempting. "No," she snapped, forbidding herself. "You need to focus."

Ten minutes later she found herself in the shower, lathering Rebekah's expensive French shampoo into her hair and scrubbing out the layers of blood and grime. Her reasoning was that she focused better when she was clean, and getting out of this house alive required nothing but her best effort. Really, though, she just needed to do something—anything—that felt remotely normal.

After a solid half hour under the waterfall showerhead, she turned the knob, cutting the water off and stepping out of shower. The bathroom around her was spacious and opulent, covered in marble and dashed with gold accents, and she felt strange wrapping herself in one of the lush, fluffy towels on the towel rack. This was all so… impractical.

Dripping wet, she walked to one of the many mirrors and stood in front of it, seeing her reflection for the first time in over a week. Outwardly, she looked fine. No cuts, no scars. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders in sopping curls, free of any blood and, thanks to Rebekah's taste in hair care, wonderfully fragrant. But inwardly, she was cracked. She couldn't bring her lips to smile. Her eyes were dull against the usually sharp contrast of caramel colored skin, drained of their fire, and her cheeks had taken on a hollow look.

She realized she hadn't eaten anything in over a week.

A knock on the door sliced through her thoughts, causing her gaze to snap over to the door. Her vulnerable posture vanished instantly. "Yes?"

"Dinner," a low, accented voice replied, and she felt her shoulders stiffen. Klaus.

She swallowed tightly. "I'm not hungry." As of two seconds ago, she was starving.

"You haven't eaten anything in ten days, love," he replied, voice slightly muffled by the door. "No need to be stubborn."

Her stomach rumbled then, loud and angry, and she furrowed her brow, placing a hand over it. It was bony beneath her towel. Well, if she was going to have to focus, she might as well eat something. "Fine," she conceded, a grudging quality in her tone. "Just let me cha—"

She stopped when she glanced at the counter where she'd left her clothes, blinking in surprise. They were gone. Instead, there was a lavish set of undergarments, a scarlet cocktail dress, and a strappy pair of heels left in their place. Her eyes narrowed. "Where are my clothes?"

"Gone," Klaus replied, voice entirely absent. "Rebekah threw them away—claimed she was doing you a favor."

Anger prickled over her skin. "And now I'm supposed to wear _this_?" she hissed, staring at the clingy dress.

She could hear the slow, curling smile through the door, "You'll find dinner at the Mikaelson house is a rather… _extravagant_ affair. First course is in ten minutes. Rebekah likes to eat people who keep her waiting, so do try and be timely."

And with that, she heard him leave, all elegance and self-importance and smarm. She scoffed—hell if she was going to wear that dress—though her glare promptly fell on a fluffy, crème colored bathroom covered in little pink hearts. It was draped over a hook on the door, large and looking to come to about mid-calf, and her eyes slowly narrowed into a stubborn look.

Extravagant her ass.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Klaus was seated at the head of an opulent table, patiently awaiting his guest of honor. Rebekah was sprawled in the chair to his left, arms crossed and expression edgy, idly flicking her Louboutin clad foot from side to side.<p>

"She's late," she muttered, tossing her hair over her shoulder to glare at him, though his eyes were trained unwaveringly on the staircase.

"She'll be here."

Rebekah snorted. "How can you be sure? She obviously bloody hates you. Wouldn't be surprised if the little thing starved herself to death just to avoid being in your abhorrently overbearing pre—"

"There she is," he said triumphantly, cutting through her words, though his smug look faded as the pretty witch came into better view. She was wearing a bathrobe.

Rebekah turned around to look at her and let out a loud laugh. "Yes, there she in fact is!" She glanced back at her brother, face radiant with mockery. "I must say, I love her look. Very elegant. Just _screams_ 'I respect you, Niklaus'."

"Enough, Rebekah," he growled, visibly annoyed. He thought she'd like the dress. Teenage girls were supposed to like fine things. Jewelry, shoes, dresses—God knows it was all Rebekah ever bloody talked about. "Bonnie," he said in greeting, forcing a tight smile as the glaring girl approached the table. "As always, you look ravishing."

"I'm taking my dinner to go."

The flare of disrespect threw him off-guard, and he found his eyes slitting. He was getting a bit tired of this attitude of hers. "Unfortunately, sweetheart, that isn't an option. Now sit down and join us before I get so hungry that I invite myself over to next door neighbors' for dinner." His eyes flashed with warning. "Their seven-year-old daughter is ever so cute."

She stared at him icily, looking ridiculously severe for someone in a heart-spotted robe, before moving to the furthest seat at the table. Before she could touch the chair, one his hybrids rushed forward to pull it out for her, ignoring her utterly startled look. His lips curled as she took a reluctant seat. Better.

"So, I see you've taken a liking to my robe," Rebekah commented as plates of caviar soup were placed in front of them, frowning in distaste at the dish. Klaus rolled his eyes. Always so picky.

"Well, somebody took it upon themselves to throw away my old clothes, so I didn't really have anything else," Bonnie replied, voice dry as ash.

"Don't sound so bitter, witch, I was only being a mate," Rebekah replied, picking up the starter spoon with an effortless flick of her wrist and dipping it in the soup. "And I didn't throw away your clothes." She brought the spoon to her lips, taking a tentative sip. "I burned them."

Bonnie's eyes narrowed strangely, and Rebekah suddenly hissed, dropping the spoon into her soup with a loud clatter. She glanced at the witch with a scandalized expression and the brunette smiled mirthlessly. "And I burned you. Guess we're even."

"Why _you_—"

"Bekah," Klaus cut in, tone bright with warning, and the blonde vampire slowly descended back into the seat she'd sprung out of. He smiled slightly, eyes trained on Bonnie with mild amusement. His little spitfire. It was so much more enjoyable when it wasn't directed at him. He lifted his spoon to his lips as he observed her, noting the way that she stared at the all of the different utensils in slight confusion.

Had she ever been to a formal event in her life? No—she was far too practical for that. Too single-minded. Above it all. Or perhaps that was simply what everyone thought, so no one ever invited her. Regardless, he couldn't help but smile when she heaved an annoyed sigh and chose the spoon nearest to her.

Wrong, but oddly endearing.

"How's the soup?" he asked, watching as she brought a large spoonful to her lips and took it in. Her eyes fluttered closed. His lips curled—there was always something so enthralling about watching humans, particularly beautiful female ones, eat food. They got a satisfaction—nay, a _relish_—out of it that vampires never could.

After a few moments, her eyes opened. He was expecting a gasp, perhaps even a breathy sigh, but instead he all he received a flat, "It's soup."

His lips twitched irritably. Game on, witch.

For the next five courses, Klaus hardly touched a scrap of his own meal, too absorbed in watching the stubborn girl eat to bother with doing any eating of his own. It was fine—his real meal was the curvy redhead waiting for him in his bed—but what wasn't fine was her absolutely ridiculous insistence on pretending like everything wasn't exquisite. His chefs were Parisian. He had ingredients imported from thirteen different countries weekly. Any and all meat was freshly cut.

And yet all he would get in response was, "It's salad." "It's pâté." "It's soufflé." A dead, dull repeat of whatever he was inquiring about. To say it was grating on his nerves was putting it mildly.

"How's the sorbet?" he ventured doggedly, referring to the sixth and final course of their meal, and Bonnie didn't even bother to glance up from the spoon she was licking the mango-flavored ice cream from.

"It's—"

"Let me guess," Rebekah snapped, lifting her hand up and waving it around as if she desperately wanted someone to call on her. "It's _sorbet_." Bonnie smirked, dipping her spoon in for another mouthful. "You're very inventive with your language, darling—so colorful and descriptive. Have you ever considered writing?"

Bonnie ignored her, taking her final bite of the dessert before dropping the spoon, collapsing back into her seat, and draping her arms over her stomach in a spent fashion.

Klaus arched a brow, eyes tracing over the exposed curve of her neck. "Find everything to your liking?"

She lulled her head to the side to meet his gaze, eyes hazy with satisfaction. "Sure." His eyes narrowed, though not before dropping to the part of her shoulder where the oversized bathrobe had slipped off. She noticed the gesture and straightened immediately, yanking the sleeve to her neck. "Anyway, I'm off to bed."

"No thank you?" he asked as she got to her feet, and she rolled her eyes, picking up her plate.

"Thank you, Klaus, for holding me hostage. An appropriately appreciative fruit basket is on its way."

"There are people for that," Rebekah said, slight sneer on her face as she watched Bonnie gather her dishes, but the brunette ignored her, glancing around for the kitchen.

"Holden," Klaus called, snapping his fingers, and a black-haired hybrid came rushing forward to grab her plates.

"Oh, er," Bonnie stumbled, reluctantly relinquishing her hold. "Thanks."

Klaus arched a brow, expression irritated. _Him_, she thanks. Without another word, she whirled around and made her way up the stairs, sparing not a single glance in his direction. He watched her every step, jaw clenched. He didn't know what it was about her—the goodness? The holier than thou attitude? The absolute refusal to sink to anyone or anything's level?—that got under his skin, but whatever it was, he had an unshakeable desire to break it.

"She's pleasant," Rebekah drawled, breaking him from his thoughts. "A real chatterbox—I can't wait to stay up all night with her swapping gossip and braiding each other's hair."

"She's not a toy, Rebekah," he replied, eyes still on the spot where she'd disappeared, and the blonde snorted in an utterly ladylike manner.

"No, she's not, because toys are _fun_." She removed the napkin from her lap, flicking it onto the table with a disdainful gesture, and brushed the crumbs off her little black dress. "She's just a female you: competitive and stubborn and utterly obsessed with having the upper hand."

He furrowed his brow, surprised to hear her assessment. "Don't be ridiculous; we're nothing alike."

"And in an absolutely _shocking_ twist of events, that's precisely what she said."

He finally looked away from the staircase, gaze meeting his sister's. "Bekah. You _actually_ think that I have anything in common with that self-righteous little thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, let's replay, shall we? You tell her to wear my dress because you want to control her. She wears my bathrobe to prove you can't. You force her to dine with us as a counter. She sits in the furthest seat in protest. You stubbornly ask her the same damn question throughout _all_ six courses of the meal, and she stubbornly gives you the same damn answer through _all _six courses of the meal. But, in the end, she doesn't give you your thank-you." She scrunched her nose. "Actually, you're right—now that I think about it, you two aren't that alike. She's better than you."

And with that, she got to her feet, straightened her dress, and dropped a quick kiss on his head. "Goodnight, brother."

He lifted a hand in an off-with-you gesture, stare trained back on the staircase the witch had disappeared from. His expression was sour. She wasn't better than him. He was the master of games. He'd invented half of them, for Christ's sake. His lip curled, eyes narrowing in deliberation for a moment before he pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and threw his napkin on the table.

Enough.

He was going to get that bloody thank-you.

**A/N: **Anyone catch my newest not-so-subtle dig at Klaroline? Something along the lines of 'girls are supposed to like pretty things…' Also, I made sure to put in a dig at the writers with the whole no-one-invites-Bonnie-to-formal-events things. What can I say? I'm bitter. Anyway, I tried to keep this chapter a little more light-hearted to balance out some of the drama from the rest. Feedback would be much appreciated: let me know your favorite bits!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything regarding TVD. I wish I did so I could give Bonnie more screen-time, but... I don't. Such is life ;)**  
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**spitfire**

chapter four

Bonnie collapsed into the large, four-poster bed in spent heap of limbs, throwing one arm over her stomach and flinging the other across her face. She had never eaten that much in her life. She had never been that _hungry_ in her life. And _God,_ that food. Honestly, she was so starving that she probably could've eaten cardboard and found it delicious, but that food… how could a dinner that divine be wasted on a pair of vampires who wouldn't even enjoy it?

And then, of course, there was Klaus. Watching her every move, relishing it as if _she_ were his meal—it was honestly enough to rattle anyone. He'd been relentless all night: poking and prodding her with overly interested little questions, watching her fork disappear into her mouth with a rapt expression, slowly trailing his gaze down the curve of her neck whenever she took a sip of water…

A flutter of anxiety traversed her: people only played with their food for so long before they got hungry.

"No," she murmured, rejecting the idea. He obviously didn't want her dead—not yet, anyway. He needed his leverage. God, if only she had her Grimoire. There were so many detection spells she needed to do in order to figure out the complexity of her imprisonment, but she couldn't remember all of them off the top of her head. Until she knew every spell keeping her in, she couldn't find the loophole, and until she found the loophole, her captivity was putting people in danger.

Get out or die trying. That was the only way to do it.

"Alright," she said aloud, lifting her arm off her face to try and focus, though her stare promptly caught on the ring bound to her finger. She paused, holding her hand above her eyes and angling her head to peer at it. What could it be? Obviously not his sunlight ring, since giving that to her wouldn't make any sense. Power neutralizer? No—she had no problem heating up Rebekah's spoon at dinner. Tracking ring, maybe? That'd be stupid—it's not like she was going anywhere.

She frowned, absently biting down on her lip. What was his angle?

"It prevents supernatural death," a low voice drawled, and for what seemed like the fifth time in far too short a time span, Bonnie nearly exploded out of her skin in shock.

"_Jesus,_" she breathed, having scrambled into a sitting position on instinct, and her glare was unsurprised to meet Klaus' smug, cornflower blue eyes in the doorway.

"I prefer Klaus," he said with a smirk, "though you're not the first woman I've drawn that raptured gasp from."

Her eyes narrowed, arms extended behind her to prop her torso up and heart racing from the scare. "Do you ever make a normal entrance?"

He shrugged, leaning against the doorway in a languid motion. "I find 'normal' a bit boring."

"So instead you go for healthy alternatives like 'homicidal' and 'sociopathic'?" she retorted before she could check herself, causing the corners of his mouth to flick upward.

"Precisely."

She forced herself to swallow the acrid words collecting on the tip of her tongue, knowing this was exactly what he wanted her to do—play his game, get riled up, react to his taunting. He was toying with her like it was dinner all over again. She clenched her jaw and averted her gaze, pushing herself off the bed and ambling over to the dresser. "Did you want something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." She could feel his eyes on her.

"Something there's a remote chance in hell I'd actually give you?" she said as casually as she could, opening the top drawer to search for something suitable to wear, though before she knew it, her body was hurtling forward, crashing against the chest-high dresser in a painful lurch that slammed the drawer shut on impact.

She let out a sharp cry, ribs throbbing against the hard wood they'd been slammed up against and chest struggling to take in air. His body was flush against hers, the hard planes smothering her against the drawers and cutting off her air supply, and she immediately reached her hands up to push back against the dresser.

He seized them almost instantly, grabbing the wrists and pinning them down against the wood. "Let's get one thing straight here, _love_, since there seems to be some confusion," he growled into her ear, tightening his grip as she thrashed against his vice-like hold. "You are my _hostage_. A bright, shiny, wriggling piece of bait to which I'm free to do whatever I should so please. So this little attitude of yours," he hissed, twisting her wrist painfully when she attempted to dig her nails into him and causing her to inhale sharply, "while absolutely _adorable_, is utterly ill-suited to your situation, don't you think?"

She focused her energy into summoning a shock wave, trying to build one large enough to toss his body backwards, though to her immediate panic, it fizzled. She closed her eyes and tried again, breaths coming in sharp, frenzied jabs, though after a few seconds, the energy dissipated. Her eyes sprang open, meeting his in the dim light of the mirror hanging over the dresser, and her voice came out ragged, "What did you do to my magic?"

She felt his smile curl against her ear. "Quick little witch, aren't you? My chefs like to season their meats with a rare variety of roots and spices—sometimes the side-effects can be undesired."

He'd drugged her. He'd muted her magic. Panic began rushing through her veins, bringing her heart rate to an erratic staccato, though she forced herself to stay as calm as she could—there were ways around this. She didn't need magic. She was smart, she was resourceful: she'd think of something. But right now, she desperately needed to stall, so she went for the one thing she knew he couldn't resist.

Banter.

"So that's what you came here for—to give me an 'F' in conduct?" she gritted out, mind whirring through a frenzy of desperate escape routes. "I assumed Original Hybrids with daddy issues had more important things to do."

"Oh, don't worry, love," he purred, tracing the tip of his nose along the shell of her ear, "I've got an agenda. You see, I'm a man of laws and axioms. I believe in supply and demand, gravity, and giving credit where credit is due. Now, keeping that last one in mind, I provided you with a lavish dinner that left every pore of you positively _glowing_ with satisfaction," he drawled, voice a gravely rumble against the curve of her throat, "and you showed not even the slightest flicker of gratitude. I find that unacceptable."

She watched his dim reflection in the mirror, swallowing the gathering lump in her throat and attempting to sound unimpressed. "So you're here to what? Punish me?"

He chuckled, "Of course not, sweetheart. That would imply accepting defeat." His dagger-like eyes flickered up to the mirror, meeting hers with a deadly expression that wiped all mirth from his face. "I'm here to get my thank-you."

And before she could so much as breathe, he'd grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head to the side, exposing her neck in a violent motion that elicited a stifled cry from her. A million thoughts exploded in her head all at once, each accompanied by a different emotion, though the most distinct of them all was a memory of her Grams' regal voice. It was soft, lulling, but it somehow managed to resonate over all of the panic and terror clashing through her mind.

_Don't be afraid of death, Bonnie_, she'd murmured, voice thick like honey._ Death is calm. Quiet. A sleepy Sunday afternoon of lemonade and catnaps. The only scary thing about Death is the life you have to live before you get there. Life… now that's what's terrifying._

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her chaotic pulse by letting the words flood her. He probably wasn't going to kill her, but if he did, fine. She would have her sleepy Sunday. She would reunite with Grams. She would be at peace.

"Interesting thing about that ring your wearing," he murmured, and for the briefest of moments, she felt the sharp tips of his fangs brush against her neck, "I can't actually kill you, being a supernatural being and all…"

Her eyes suddenly flew open.

"So I s'pose that means," he pressed on, slowly dragging his teeth all the way up to her jaw, "that I can bite you all that I want," he switched directions, opting to descend back down the curve of her throat, "without any real risk of killing you."

A very real, very paralyzing fear was taking hold of her, causing her breath to grow alarmingly shallow. There was no way out. He could drain her a million times over and she'd keep coming back to life, keep coming back for more. She couldn't even kill herself—she was a supernatural being. Her body started shaking.

"Now, now," he tutted, "there's no need for fear, love. This can all be avoided with a very simple 'Dinner was marvelous, Klaus. Thank you'."

She could see his eyes glowing with satisfaction in the mirror, white fangs glinting as they hovered over the pulse point in her neck. Terror and hatred wrestled within her—terror of the pain he could inflict on her, of the memory of Damon tearing into her throat, and hatred of the smugness clouding Klaus's expression, of his dilated pupils glittering with triumph like the inky dots of two exclamation points.

She struggled for a moment, and then hatred won out. He wouldn't manipulate her like this—she wouldn't fucking _let _him. This was what he did to everybody. Absolutely everybody—even his own family. If being the one person who's character he couldn't break meant getting her blood drained a hundred times in one night, then so be it. Her eyes slitted. "Dinner," she growled, ignoring the slight waver in her voice and holding his gaze fiercely, "was _dinner_."

His smug expression tightened.

"The soup," she spat, anger building in her now, "was _soup_. The duck," she pressed on, voice rising with every word, "was _duck_, and the sorbet was _fucking sorbet_!"

He looked slightly surprised by her outburst, and she used the opportunity to round on him, expression filled with utter loathing. "When will you get it?" she hissed, face volatile with emotion. "The games, the threats, the ultimatums—they aren't going to work with me, Klaus. Kill me if you want, torture me if it makes you fucking happy, but know that you will never, _ever_, get anything substantial from me by threatening my life." Her eyes were daggers. "My integrity, unlike yours, is worth more than that."

He held her stare for a moment, his eyes dark and cryptic, and for a solid ten seconds, she was certain he was going to kill her. His face was entirely inscrutable, his body looming over hers with effortless ownership, and she knew that if she tried to run, he'd catch her in a heartbeat.

But then, he did something that thoroughly surprised her. He sighed—a long, irritated, resigned-sounding sigh. "You are impossibly annoying, you know that?"

She blinked. What?

"You're like a bloody poster for morality, it's ridiculous."

Her eyes narrowed in utter perplexity, entirely thrown by his sudden casual nature: the deadliness was gone. The fangs had retracted, the serial killer stare cast off—he just looked thoroughly annoyed. Her guard instantly flew up. He was probably messing with her. Trying to get her to ease up so that his strike was that much more satisfying.

But just as soon as these thoughts hit her, he pushed himself off of her, taking a few steps back and crossing his arms to scrutinize her. She glared back, wariness coursing through her like blood. "What are you doing?"

He cocked his head to side, eyes examining. "Attempting to figure you out."

"Well, stop it." She didn't know why, but something about him staring at her so intently, so normally, made her feel a thousand times more uncomfortable than when he stared at her like she was his next meal. Her skin prickled with unease and she crossed her arms instinctively.

He noticed the motion, eyes filling with a strange sort of comprehension, though he washed the look away quickly and instead arched a brow. "You have an unfortunate habit of thinking you can tell me what to do, witch."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you have an unfortunate habit of threatening to kill me. All in all, I'd say yours wins."

His lips quirked slightly. "You mean I actually _win_ something against you?"

The playfulness of the comment threw her, and she furrowed her brow. What was his angle? "Don't get used to it."

He smirked, equal parts amusement and curiosity. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

"Good."

He stared at her for another long moment and she felt herself fidgeting. What _was _this? Then, "Admit the dinner was good."

She blinked, entirely startled. "What?"

"That food was exquisite—just admit it and I'll leave."

Her eyes blazed with confusion. "Why do you care about this stupid dinner so much?"

His jaw tightened at her dismissal, "Just admit it, Bonnie."

She eyed him closely, slightly amazed by what she was seeing. Credit was clearly something that really got to him. She had no idea where it'd come from—daddy isses? Never being able to please his family?—but whatever the source, she realized the magnitude of its effect. Klaus had a weakness. In his own sick, twisted way, he aimed to please.

She decided to exploit it. "What do I get in return?"

His eyes narrowed humorlessly. "Excuse me?"

She shrugged, coming across a lot braver than she felt. "We've established you can't manipulate me, so instead, make a trade."

He stared her down, annoyance flooding his expression. She fidgeted slightly at the look, not used to seeing him look so… human. She almost felt like she was talking to Damon, and the reality of the fact that his fangs had been pressed against her neck not two minutes ago thoroughly rattled her. That—the ruthless killer with no scruples—_that_ was Klaus. So who the hell was this?

"Fine," he said, eyes glittering suddenly with something new, "I'll make you a deal. I have your Grimoire. "

Her ears perked up, entire face lighting with possibility. He had her Grimoire. She steadied her voice, attempting to sound uninterested. "I'm listening."

"Give me my thank-you and you'll have it first thing tomorrow morning."

She forced herself to swallow her excitement, instead pressing her lips together in a shrewd expression. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

He pressed a hand to his heart, expression wounded. "Bonnie, I'm offended. I'm a gentleman of my word."

"Funny, that's what you said when you promised to let me go."

He smirked. "I never said _when_, love."

Her eyes narrowed speculatively, and after a moment, brightened. "Add onto your promise that I get to keep the Grimoire."

His lips unfurled into a slow smile. "Now you're learning."

She shot him a cold smile in return, and he held out his hand, beckoning for hers. She eyed it warily for a few moments. Was she missing something? Was she walking into some sort of trap? This all seemed a little too easy. However, before she could decide upon an answer, he reached forward and took her hand into his own.

"Forcing my hand," she observed, body instinctively tensing at the feel of his long, roughened clasped over hers. "How gentlemanly."

He bowed his head down and brushed her knuckles against his lips, eyes flickering up to smile at her. "Always." She frowned at the action, pulling her hand back to recoil, but she tightened his grip on her hand and straightened. "My thank-you in exchange for your Grimoire. Agreed?"

She briefly chewed her lip. "All previously agreed upon conditions withstanding?"

"Naturally."

She glanced down at their hands for a moment, at the hands of two polar entities— one the hand of someone who gave up everything to save lives and the other the hand of someone who gave up everything to ruin them. The saint and the killer. The puppet and the ventriloquist. The lamb and the wolf.

After a moment, she hardened against the idea, grasping his hand firmly and giving it a brief shake. "Agreed." Bonnie Bennett was _no _freaking_ lamb_.

"Splendid." He dropped their clasped hands, though instead of letting go, he entwined his fingers with hers, moving forward until she was crowded against the dresser.

"What the hell ar—_Klaus_," she snapped, anxiety fluttering through her as his other hand came up to her waist, holding her in place.

"You don't get to go anywhere, love, until I'm satisfied with your thank-you," he purred, cocking his head to the side and eyeing her wickedly. She brought her free hand up and pushed back against his chest, suffocating by the lack of space, but he merely arched an amused brow. "Tell me about dinner."

"I'll tell you when you move ba—"

"_Tell _me," he interjected, dropping his face down to brush his nose against hers, "about _dinner_."

Her heart rate was escalating again, mind blurring with a frenzied series of potential motives and explanations. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? She felt entirely thrown, and strangely, infinitely more off-balance than when he was trying to kill her. That, at least, she could make complete sense of. But this? Every nerve was shuddering in protest at the invasion of space. "Klaus."

"Dinner, love."

She started struggling against him despite herself, overwhelmed with the need to break out of his intimate grip. "_Klaus—"_

"Would you describe it more as exquisite," he pressed on, tightening his grip on her waist as he brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, "or divine?

"What the hell are you doing?" she exclaimed, the note of hysteria ringing clear in her voice, and he began chuckling lowly.

"Oh, Bonnie," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture and staring straight into her panicked green eyes, "Moral, just little Bonnie. I should've known."

She felt her insides constricting with the absolute _wrongness_ of this all. "Known _what_?"

"That out of anything I could possibly do to you," he drawled, lips curving into hazy half-smile as he angled his head to nuzzle her cheek, "this is what would bother you the most."

She stilled suddenly, realizing his game. That was what the look had meant. The dawning look from earlier, the one he'd quickly erased—he'd caught on to her reaction. She closed her eyes, cursing under breath. It _had_ been too easy. Looked like she wasn't the only one finding weaknesses tonight.

"Aw, don't be sad, love," he purred, cocking his head to the side with an insincere expression. "If anyone should be, it's me. The fact that you'd rather me kill you than seduce you is horribly offensive, but, alas, it gets the job done."

"I already agreed to give you your thank-you," she hissed, unable to shake the feeling of things crawling all over her skin—the absolute sickness of the situation was making her dizzy. Trying to bite her was one thing. Trying to convince her to join him another thing. But _this_? "You don't have to force it out of me."

"Ah, but you see, I don't like the way you think we're equals, darling," he replied, tracing his thumb over her fingers. So that was it. He wanted to flaunt his authority over her. Punish her for having the gall to propose a deal. "I'll indulge it to a degree because I find it amusing, but consider this a friendly little reminder: we aren't equals. Not even close. Now tell me about dinner," he murmured, voice light with enjoyment, and she shuddered when he pressed forward slightly, pushing his hips more firmly against hers.

"Dinner," she swallowed, trying to shake off the raging set of emotions inside of her, "d-dinner was—_God_, please stop!"

She hated herself for how desperate she sounded, but his lips had begun traveling down her jaw, leaving a soft array of kisses that reminded her far too much of Jeremy.

"Dinner was…?" he said between kisses, ghosting his way up to her earlobe, and it wasn't until he took the tip between his teeth and gently tugged that she utterly flipped out.

"_Stop_!" she screeched, and to both of their surprise, a shock wave of energy came barreling out of her, bursting across the room and knocking over everything in it's path—pillows flew off the bed, chairs turned over, the window burst open, and the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling lurched around wildly, threatening to fall. Klaus, however, stood untouched, staring at her with a vaguely astonished expression.

She stared back as fiercely as she could. Did this mean her magic was back? She attempted giving him an aneurism just to see, but nothing happened. He didn't even blink, expression thoroughly inscrutable as it bored down in to hers. They remained like this for a solid ten seconds, her chin tilted up and his stare entirely level, before the door clattered open with a loud, vicious _bang_.

"Will you two shut the _bloody fuck up_?" an infuriated voice cried, and she glanced over his shoulder to see the entirely discordant image of Rebekah, clad in a pretty pink nightie, rollers, and pair of Barbie slippers, scowling furiously in the doorway. Upon noticing her brother's rather intimate hold over the witch, however, she groaned. "Oh, for _Christ's sake_, Nik, you've resorted to raping the girl?" She rolled her eyes, switching her gaze over to Bonnie's. "You'll have to forgive my brother, darling. He doesn't take rejection well."

"Leave, Bekah," Klaus hissed, his tone gravely and irritated, but the blonde merely scoffed.

"Right, and let you two continue keeping up the whole sodding neighborhood? Not likely."

"Rebekah."

"Niklaus."

The two stared at each other for a moment, communicating some sort of silent sibling war that involved quite a bit of scowling, and Bonnie took advantage of the moment. In a flash, she ducked and spun out of Klaus's grip, scrambling away before he could grab her and positioning herself behind an overturned chair.

Rebekah snorted. "Yeah, like that's going to keep you safe."

"Thank you for dinner," Bonnie said from behind the chair, ignoring her entirely as her eyes narrowed onto Klaus's. "It was excellent." There. Her part of the bargain was done. Anything else he did was extraneous and had no bearing whatsoever on her getting her Grimoire, getting her magic back, and getting the hell out of here as soon as possible.

"Your welcome," Rebekah replied. Both of them turned to look at her in confusion and she scowled. "What? I picked out the duck."

Klaus sighed irritably, running a hand through his hair. He looked thoroughly vexed. "Come down to breakfast at 10 for your Grimoire," he growled, turning on his heel and heading to the door, "but know this isn't over, witch. Not even close." Bonnie's heart lifted—was he leaving? Good God, he was leaving. This was a miracle—his sister must've ruined his mood enough to make him go.

Jesus, she never thought she'd say this, but thank God for Rebekah Mikaelson. Who knew what would've been happening to her right now if the bitchy Original hadn't walked in?

"You're giving her her Grimoire back?" the blonde asked in disbelief as Klaus pushed past her, eyes bright with amusement, though the pissed off hybrid merely ignored her and disappeared. She glanced back at Bonnie with bright expression. "How did you manage that one?"

Normally, Bonnie would've replied with something cold and unfriendly, but the girl had just saved her from what could've been hours of torture. So, she sighed. "I made a deal with him."

Rebekah arched a brow. "What sort of deal?"

"Thank him for dinner, I get my Grimoire back."

The blonde merely stared at her for a moment, eyes a piercing brown, before bursting out into laughter. "You can't be serious."

Bonnie raised her hands in shrugging gesture. "His terms, not mine."

"That's absolutely _absurd_," she laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, _Nik_. So obsessed with winning. It's rather sweet, really, how hard he tries to compensate for all his failures."

At this, Bonnie's eyes narrowed. "Sweet's not the word that comes to mind."

Rebekah smiled, "Oh, you know how it is, darling—one person's sweet is another person's demented. Take your doppelganger friend, for example. Stefan finds her sweet. I find her demented. Any teen girl who wears her hair like tree-hugging nine-year-old and thinks it's cute is just asking to be institutionalized, really."

Bonnie's momentary openness dissipated at the jab at Elena, and Rebekah seemed to notice. She straightened her shoulders, tossed her curler-ridden hair back, and gave Bonnie a disparaging look. "Anyway, I'm off to bed. Make any more noise and I'll strangle you with my bathrobe."

She turned on her heel to stalk off, but not before adding, "And do try not to further destroy my room. Any permanent damage you cause will be inflicted right back at you by me with absolutely no qualms. Fair is fair."

And with that, she disappeared, having the decency to at least shut the door behind her. Bonnie immediately collapsed in a heap on the floor, thoroughly overcome with emotion. Her first conscious night and she was already completely spent.

How the hell was she going to survive this?

_A/N_: Sorry for the wait – things have gotten really hectic now that school's started so my 3x a week updating speed will definitely not survive that :/ Anyway, any confusing things in this chapter should probably be explained once I switch to Klaus' perspective in the next, so don't worry if you feel a little cheated (re: why didn't he fly across the room?). Also, I'd originally planned to go a different direction with this chapter but I felt that this version incorporated a little bit of everything, so please let me know what you think. Favorite moments? Reviews = love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I own not one single part of this incredibly infuriating show.

**spitfire**

chapter five

_Knock, knuh-knock, knock, knock-knock-knock._

Klaus's eyes narrowed at the Mary Had a Little Lamb rhythm, blurring the words on the parchment he was reading. "Sod off, Bekah."

The blonde ignored his dismissal in her typically irreverent way, opening the door to his bedroom with an unceremonious shove and leaning against the doorframe. "Her Grimoire for a thank-you?"

His jaw tightened. Of course she'd bring that up.

"That's a whole new level of desperate, Nik, even for you."

He ignored her, forcing his stare to refocus on the words in front of him. She took this as a challenge and sauntered on in.

"Are you ignoring me, brother?" she asked, lips curling into a smirk. "Or do you just not have an explanation?"

His lips ticked up into a mirthless smile. "Not one a vapid little thing like you could ever understand, I'm afraid." His eyes rose to meet hers, bright and arrogant.

She rolled hers. "The latter, then."

He swiveled about in his chair, dropping his pen. "You really don't understand the first thing about politics, do you, darling? Allow me to enlighten you: it's a give-and-take. You have to be prepared to lose some as long as what you win is worth more."

"And what does giving her the Grimoire win you?" she scoffed.

"Submission," he replied, face a series of razor-sharp angles. "Slowly but surely, little by little, I win her submission. You've met the girl—she's as nauseatingly righteous as they come—but with every thing she grants me, every inch she lets me take, I whittle her pride down just a bit."

Rebekah's brow furrowed. "She's not just giving you an inch, Nik, she's getting something in return—something valuable, no less. How exactly is that her submitting to you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Dim doesn't suit you, Bekah. Giving her the Grimoire doesn't lose me anything since I never had any intention of keeping it from her. How do you propose she find me my spell without it?" He shot her a pointed look. "Besides, you're missing the bigger picture. If there's one thing that girl clings to, it's the idea that she'll never do anything I ask of her. Regardless of if she gets something in return or not, every time she does something I want, it chips a tiny piece off the very core of her integrity." His lips curled. "Little by little, it'll get to her. Trust me."

She stared at him for a moment, lips pursed in appraisal, before donning a skeptical expression. "Sorry, Nik. Not sold. I saw your face when I interrupted. You were rattled."

His lips thinned into a tight line. "You've always had an active imagination, Bekah."

She shook her head, mockery lifting her lips. "I wasn't imagining anything. Now quit with the petty excuses and tell me, brother," she purred, waltzing over to his bed draping herself over it, "what is it about this witch that has you so unsettled?" She dropped back on her elbows, fixing him with her catlike stare. "Ever since she got here you've been acting like an insecure little boy who got second place in the town spelling bee."

He cocked his head to the side in a casual gesture, though his eyes were glinting with warning. "I do love hearing you talk about things you don't understand, sister. It reminds me how naïve you are."

She chuckled. "Defensive, are we?"

His smile was tight. "No, just correct."

"Right," she snorted, holding up her hand to inspect her nails. A beat passed, and then, in an offhanded voice, "She's quite pretty, you know. If you're into that natural sort of thing."

His brow furrowed—Rebekah never said the word pretty unless she was talking about people's necks. Or herself. "She's a Bennett witch," he replied, voice implying a shrug. Bennett witches were always beautiful. Power glittered in their eyes, glowed in their skin—Bonnie came from a long line of exquisitely beautiful women, and she was no exception. The anomaly was the fact that Rebekah was mentioning it.

"I'd argue she's a cut above the rest." She frowned at a questionable cuticle. "More exotic. One of those rare faces where you know the instant you see it that no one else will ever have it."

Klaus leaned back into his seat, arms folding over his chest. "What's your angle here, Bekah?"

She shrugged idly, dropping her hand and shooting him a breezy smile. "Oh, nothing."

His eyes narrowed. He didn't like what she was implying. "She's powerful, Bekah. More than she or you or anyone realizes. She sent that blast of energy through your room with three tablespoons of witch hazel in her bloodstream—hell, the only reason I wasn't sent flying across the room was because I put it in all of our drinks," he said, stare cold with warning. "Don't trivialize this situation with silly ideas of romance. Underestimating her is dangerous: her power is potent to the point of volatile. _That_, not her beauty, is what concerns me."

She rolled her eyes, though the line of her shoulders lost some of its proud defiance: the older brother had just scolded the little sister, and despite all of her insolence and cheekiness, they both knew she would always default to him. "Whatever," she drawled.

"'Whatever'," he mocked, lips curling upward. "Enough with the atrocious Americanisms—you sound like a sorority girl."

"Better a sorority girl than an Elizabethan noble." She yawned then, throwing her hands behind her in a luxurious stretch. "Well, I'm off to bed. _Again_."

He smirked as she swung her legs off his bed and got to her slipper-clad feet, sauntering over to the door. "If you feel like playing power struggle with your little toy again, do me a favor and have her cast a silencing spell over the room first," she tossed over her shoulder, swinging the door open. "I can't have trivial things like torture interrupting my beauty sleep."

He rolled his eyes. "Night, sister."

She gave an arbitrary wave of her hand before disappearing down the hallway. He leaned back in his seat with a wry expression, crossing his arms over his chest. Rebekah was a complete pain in the arse, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't happy to have her around. There was a lightness and vulnerability to her that reminded him what life used to be like before… well, before all of this.

Silence engulfed the room in her absence, and he pricked his ears slightly, directing his hearing to the floor above. It took a few seconds, but he finally heard the sound of a slightly erratic heartbeat—the witch was awake. Her breaths were quiet but rapid, her pulse randomly speeding up and slowing down, and he wondered briefly what was going through her mind.

It was, much like the rest of her, a mystery.

His lips ticked downward. Bonnie Bennett, his leverage, his source of information, the latest addition to his long list of witches, was turning out to be so much more than anyone gave her credit for.

It was irritating. It was frustrating.

But he couldn't quite bring himself to hate it.

* * *

><p>Bonnie descended the stairs at 10 A.M. sharp. She hadn't slept a wink: she'd been tossing and turning all night, eyeing the clock and devising her plan of attack. Once she got her Grimoire, she had to work fast—Klaus would know there was something in there that could likely get her past his imprisonment spells. He'd limit her free time with it. Thus, she needed to be focused: she'd hit the chapter on sealing charms first, then move to barrier incantations, and then move to explosion and fire spells.<p>

Oh, yeah. If she had to blow up the house to get out, she'd do it.

Now all she needed was a way to distract him: something to get him off her back for a few hours while she scoured the spells. She had yet to come up with one. Anything she thought of involved putting someone else in danger, and she couldn't have that. Thus, she was simply stuck hoping Klaus had better things to do than witch-sit her.

It wasn't her best plan.

"You got this," she murmured to herself as she descended the stairs, slightly surprised to see the lavish dining room empty. Was she early? Puzzled, she glanced around the large, empty space, searching for any sign of life, though her ears promptly caught on the clink of glasses and silverware floating from what she presumed to be the kitchen.

Unsure of what else to do, she made her way over to the door and pushed it open. The sight that greeted her immediately threw her for a loop. Klaus—serial-killing, sociopathic, blood-drinking, hostage-holding _Klaus_—was sitting back in his seat, _New York Times _sprawled open before him, silk robe loosely secured around the pale sinews of his waist, eating pancakes_. _

Fluffy, buttery, drenched in raspberry syrup _pancakes_.

She halted in the doorway, utterly bewildered, and though his eyes remained fixed on his paper, a smile ticked at the corners of his lips. "Morning, love. Sleep well?"

She forced herself to shake off her surprise—really, though, he was wearing slippers and everything—and instead fixed him with her best glare. "Grimoire."

His eyes flickered up to hers, mildly amused. "What, no greeting? No 'I slept wonderfully, Klaus, courtesy of the lavish bed you've so kindly provided me with—thank you for asking.'"

She cocked her head to the side. "I slept horribly, Klaus, courtesy of the life-threatening and hostile environment you've so kindly imprisoned me within." Her eyes shrank into slits. "Thank you for asking."

He lounged back in his seat with a Cheshire expression, motioning with his fork. "And now you ask me how I slept."

Her tone was cold. "My Grimoire, Klaus."

"I think it goes a bit more like, "How did you sleep, Klaus?'"

"I think I couldn't give any less of a shit about how you slept, so let's skip to the question I actually care to know the answer to: where's my Grimoire?" She knew she was pushing it with the disrespect, but there was something about getting her manners criticized by a raging serial killer that was kind of pissing her off.

Klaus, apparently in a tolerant mood, merely folded his newspaper in half and set it down, sitting up in his seat. "Sit down, have some breakfast. We'll get to your little witch diary in bit."

Her lip twitched at the derogatory reference to her Grimoire—there were spells that could turn his skin inside out in her 'little witch diary'—but took a begrudging seat across from him nonetheless. He motioned to the plate of pancakes and she glared. "I'm not hungry."

"Don't be silly, love—Holden!" He snapped his fingers and the dark-haired hybrid popped his head through a door on the opposite end of the kitchen, glancing up expectantly. "Serve the lovely Ms. Bennett some breakfast, and be generous—she's famished."

Holden sped over before she could protest and piled pancake after pancake on her plate, overwhelming her entirely. "Okay, okay, that's enough!" she said, shooting an exasperated glare at Klaus before giving Holden a tight, forced smile. He was only following orders, after all. "Thanks."

Holden glanced at her, seemingly surprised by the gratitude, and smiled unsurely. The uncertainty of the expression was strangely heartbreaking; Bonnie wondered when was the last time anyone thanked him for the millions of slave-like things he was likely forced to do. She found her strained smile softening into a sympathetic one. Poor guy.

"Holden." Klaus' tone was frigid. The boy jumped and tore his large grey eyes away from Bonnie. She glanced over at Klaus and saw that his expression matched his voice. "There's Poison Ivy growing in the rose bushes—I need it gone."

Holden nodded. "Got it." He turned to go, and his eyes momentarily grazed Bonnie's in the process.

"Oh, and Holden," Klaus added, causing the hybrid's back to stiffen. "Don't use gloves—bare hands are more thorough."

He glanced over his shoulder. "But the—"

"Goodbye, Holden."

The hybrid dropped his head and walked out of the kitchen, shoulders tense. Bonnie stared at Klaus in disbelief. "What the hell was that?"

Klaus shrugged. "I like to keep my house immaculate."

Her eyes narrowed. "He's a person, you know."

"A person who happens to be entirely indebted to me."

"And that gives you the right to abuse him?"

He rolled his eyes. "I gave him freedom from a curse he'd have to deal with for the rest of his life—do you think he minds having itchy hands for a few days?"

Bonnie stared at him in disdain. "You have an interesting definition of the word 'freedom'."

He eyed her for a moment, head tilting to the side in amusement. "And what, exactly, would you know about freedom, love?"

Her eyes blazed with confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, tone idle. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but when was the last time you did a single thing that didn't revolve around protecting your little doppelganger friend?"

Her face tightened. "That's different."

"Is it?" he asked.

"Of course," she snapped. "I _choose_ to protect her. I'm her best friend; I'd do anything for her—"

"Ah, ah," he tutted, waving his fork in dissent. "Not 'anything'—you do _everything_ for her. The blonde one—Caroline. That's her best friend, too. A vampire, if I'm not mistaken. Does she go to the lengths you go to?"

"Yes!"

Klaus smiled. "Bonnie. You haven't lied to me yet—don't start now."

Bonnie scowled at him. "I'm a witch—I can do things that no one else can, and it's my responsibility to do whatever I can to help my friends."

"And their responsibility to do the same for you, presumably."

"Of course!"

"So when was the last time they did?"

She faltered, taken off-guard. "What?"

"Your friends—you claim to share an equal responsibility to do what's best for each other, to save each other, so when was the last time they saved _you_?"

Bonnie stared at him, mind going blank. This was ridiculous. Of course her friends did things for her. Maybe not necessarily recently, since she was a witch and capable of taking care of herself, but in general?

Klaus took in her silence with a glittering stare. "I have a question for you."

Her eyes narrowed.

"On the whole, what occurrence—what singular event—has caused all of the recent death, heartbreak, and sorrow in all of your previously stable lives?"

Her lip curled in scorn. "People like you."

He smiled. "Vampires, you mean?"

"That's what started it, yes."

"Now think more specifically. When did all the trouble begin? What brought all the misery?"

She furrowed her brow, tracing down the long list of horrific events that had befallen all of them—the deaths, the destruction, the suffering—until her mind finally fluttered to a halt on the last normal, happy day of her life. The first day of junior year. And then her answer hit her, lips moving on their own accord, not really thinking, "When Stefan and Damon came to town."

"Interesting," he drawled, leaning back in his seat and tapping his fork against his cheek. "So then why, pray tell, did Elena—the girl you claim would do anything for you—ask them to stay?"

The question hit Bonnie like a thunderbolt.

"Was it for you? Did she think your grandmother dying was in your own best interest? Caroline turning into a vampire—was that her life's ambition? Her brother—Damon killed him once, didn't he? Did she consider that a good learning experience for him?"

"She didn't know any of those things would happen," she gritted out through her teeth.

Klaus stared at her. "But they did. And yet here Stefan and Damon still are, putting everyone in danger. In fact, and correct me if I'm wrong, here, but isn't she currently stringing along both of them?" Bonnie's eyes flashed and Klaus tutted, "Oh, but you can't blame her for that. I'd imagine that degree of flattery and attention would be something of a drug to her—what small-town teen girl wouldn't risk the lives of her friends and family for it?" His eyes glittered. "Oh, right. You."

Bonnie's nostrils flared. "Elena deserves happiness. You cannot _imagine_ what she's been through—"

He started laughing. "Oh, Bonnie. I've been alive for an entire millennium. I've seen things that would drive you to suicide and make Elena's life look like a shiny little rainbow. Difference is, I don't pretend that entitles me to a friend like you." The words struck a chord in her and he went for the kill: "For that kind of selfless devotion, I have my hybrids—servants, really. They're indebted to me and, as a result, do what I say. You, however, are indebted to no one, and yet…" he trailed off, cocking his head to the side, and she felt her insides burning, "for all everyone thinks, you're nothing more than a way to keep Elena alive. Just another hybrid."

She stared at him, entirely lost for words, a torrential downpour of emotions coursing through her. Of course it wasn't true. Nothing he was saying was true. But a part of herself that she absolutely hated couldn't help but wonder, if none of it was true, why did it make sense? The logic was there. His questions were valid. His points were worth considering. So what if—

No. _No. _She steeled herself against the thoughts, fingers clenching into fists: he was trying to break her. That's all this was. He wanted to plant the seed of doubt and watch her crumble, watch it destroy the one thing she'd never compromised—her loyalty to her friends—from the inside out. It was all over his face, dancing in the smug blue of his irises. Her fierce devotion to people other than him bothered him. Her unwavering love for her friends, her loyalty—the fact that he had to command it from people whereas she gave it voluntarily—it ate him up inside.

And damn it, it would continue to eat him, because she wasn't going to bite.

Her eyes cooled into an impenetrable shell. "I'm here for my Grimoire, Klaus."

He observed the shift in her demeanor with a lingering glance, eyes speculative and vaguely amused. Then, without breaking eye contact, "Harriet, would you please give Ms. Bennett her Grimoire?"

A pretty hybrid with long black hair came out of the shadows, startling Bonnie slightly. She hadn't even realized she was there. She held the book out with scowl, sullen features complimenting the glimmer of malice in her cold blue eyes. "Here."

"Thanks," Bonnie said on instinct, though the girl didn't seem to appreciate it, for she merely rolled her eyes and skulked off.

"Your welcome," Klaus drawled, well aware of the fact that the gratitude wasn't directed at him. Bonnie shot him a glare and he smirked, clapping his hands together. "Well, now that your business is taken care of, I have matters of my own to attend do." He scraped his chair back and got to his feet, though not before catching a glimpse of her untouched plate. He feigned a look of concern. "Do eat, love, otherwise I'll be forced to conclude that Holden did something wrong and will have to punish him accordingly." Spite flooded her, though she grudgingly set her Grimoire down and reached for the pitcher of syrup by his plate. "Ah, _ah—_you'll want to use the other syrup, love."

Her brow furrowed, "Why?"

His lips curled into a falsely innocent smile. "Just trust me."

Irritated, she reached for the other pitcher and poured it over the pancakes, ears pricked and awaiting the sound of his retreating footsteps. Her entire body was tense, coiled into a crappy portrayal of nonchalance—she'd be lying if she said she was completely over the conversation they'd just had. She refused to let it get to her, but some of his points rang a little too true for her to cast them off as absurd. After a beat of silence, she glanced over at him. "You can leave now."

"I need to see you take a bite to believe you're actually eating, otherwise…" he shrugged casually, glancing down at his watch, "poor Holden."

Her fingers clenched around her fork, and she wished so desperately that she could give him an aneurism. However, in the interest of the guy who was probably knee-deep in Poison Ivy at the moment, she speared off a piece of pancake and brought it to her mouth.

He watched her in that infuriatingly rapt way he'd been watching her eat yesterday during dinner—bright, possessive, enthralled. Irritated, she chewed with her mouth open and said "Happy?" through a mouthful of half-masticated pancake.

His lip curled in a mixture of amusement and disgust. "Your manners leave something to be desired, witch."

"Don't you have lives to ruin?" she countered, taking an extra large piece of pancake and origami-ing it into her mouth.

He smirked. "Of course. Can't keep Stefan waiting." She stiffened at the name, eyes snapping up to his, and he feigned a look of concern. "Oh, don't worry, love—it's nothing about you. Elena's safe at the moment, so no one's been too concerned with getting you free."

The comment hit her like a blow to the chest, heart dropping down to her stomach. He was lying. He had to be lying. Of course they were trying to get her out; she was trapped by a freaking _psychopath_. And yet, for some reason, her he's-just-trying-to-get-to-you mantra wasn't working as well as it had before. Stirrings of anger and hurt were very slowly, very subtly, starting to leak into her brain.

The resentful feelings thoroughly disoriented her, and the turmoil must've shown on her face, for Klaus chose precisely that moment to make his exit. Leaving her there. Hanging on the brink of something dangerous. "Don't let him get to you," she murmured tightly to herself, averting her eyes from the doorway, though just as she did, her eyes caught on his abandoned plate of pancakes.

Disgust and realization flooded her at the same time, and an overwhelmed feeling quickly started closing in on her. She was out of her league. She couldn't keep thinking she could meet Klaus toe-to-toe; she couldn't keep being that freaking _naïve_. She thought she'd scored a victory in getting her Grimoire back, that her biggest challenge for today was getting him to leave her alone, but with a few well-chosen words, he had her doubting every choice she'd made since the day vampires set foot in her world.

He had her doubting her friends.

And that was bigger than anything she could've anticipated from him.

She stared at his pancakes with a shaken gaze, resolving immediately that she had to get out of there as fast as she possibly could, because she didn't know how much of this she could handle. Klaus was terrifying in ways that she couldn't predict, and just when she thought she had him pegged, had him figured out, had the right shields up in the right places, he went for the target she hadn't even realized she'd left unprotected. Klaus wasn't the kind of guy who wore slippers, read the paper, and had pancakes for breakfast.

He was the kind of guy whose 'raspberry syrup' was actually blood.

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys – soooooooo sorry for the wait. I just graduated from college (WHAT UP) and it was such a whirlwind that I had zero time to update anything (if you're on Tumblr at all and know me there, you'll see that I haven't even really been on there either… sacrilege!) If you've somehow found the patience to stick with this story, I am over the moon and envy your endurance and can't thank you enough. Anyway, onto ze chaptah! No digs at Klaroline or the writers this time, buuuut I wanted to point out how unbelievably famazing of a friend Bonnie is to people who don't care about her NEARLY as much as she deserves, so… that was my call-out of the chapter. Regarding the Klonnie, I want this story to be as realistic as possible, which I've reasoned (and let me know if I'm off!) means it should be a bit of an emotional tug-of-war between the characters. One second Klaus is power-tripping, the next he's amused by her, the next he's irritated, the next he's impressed; and with Bonnie, one second she's terrified, the next she's a little cocky, the next she's bantering, the next she's shaken up. I think it's easy to lose sight of the situations one's in and get lost in the present, so this story isn't going to be consistently dark/depressing, nor is it going to be consistently romantic/fluffy—there will be a little bit of everything mixed in at what I (possibly incorrectly) deem the right time… so feedback on how I'm doing with the smorgasbord of emotions would be EXCELLENT. Anyway, this author's note is officially it's own chapter now so imma shut up. But it's good to be back and sorry again for leaving you hanging. Klonnie steaminess is up ahead!


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